


Snow Day

by NephilimEQ



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bickering, Bromance, Fluff, In Character, M/M, Snowball Fight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-01
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2019-04-16 13:28:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14165838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NephilimEQ/pseuds/NephilimEQ
Summary: Sherlock presses John's buttons just a little bit too hard during one winter day while on a case. John snaps. Fun ensues.





	Snow Day

**Author's Note:**

> A.N. -- A note of thanks to mylittlecornerofsherlock! I saw their post on Tumblr, so I decided to take the prompt for the story and turn it into something fun. I am snowed in (like, really snowed in!), so I decided to write this with the day in mind. This is what I would do if any of my friends could get to my house. I thought that at least Sherlock and John should enjoy it.

 

** Snow Day **

We were in the middle of a case when it happened.  Sherlock, of course, had already had three-fourths of it solved by the time he finished looking at the crime scene, never mind the fact that it was in the middle of a snow-filled forest in the middle of bloody _nowhere_ , and so, as we left the scene, he was being his usual irritatingly smug and arrogant self.  As we were crossing the open field that broke up a large expanse between the trees, he started in on one of his usual tirades of complaints.

“C’mon, John,” he shouted back at me, plumes of breath flowing into the air in front of him. “This was barely a five and I can’t believe that you dragged me out here under the idiotic assumption that it was an eight and a half!  Clearly, from the remote location and the time of death, even _you_ , as a doctor, would recognize the signs of prolonged post-mortem exposure!”

One would think that after all our time together, day in and day out, that _he_ would recognize the signs of pushing it too far, but, of course, he was completely oblivious to the fact that I was ready to strategically apply brute force to his jaw with my clenched fist.

I took a deep breath and kept on walking, keeping my arms down at my sides, controlling the growing anger.  We were halfway through the clearing when it happened.

“Surely, you’ve realized by now, John, that humoring you has become a new pastime of mine?”

I stopped.

He didn’t notice and kept on walking, still talking, waving his hands as he spoke, while I silently seethed and plotted my next move.  Realizing that he hadn’t noticed I’d stopped, and that he still had his back to me, I came to a rash, but perfect solution to my problem.  Not only would it get his attention, it would also allow me to vent my physical frustration.

I reached down and quickly packed some snow into my glove, my fingers easily remembering long winter days with Harry doing just this, and I let it loose…

…straight towards Sherlock’s head.

It hit its target.

Beautiful.

I could tell from where it had hit, just at the base of his head, right where his collar, scarf, and neck met, that some of it had most likely slipped down his neck onto his back.  His faint shiver a second later confirmed my suspicions.

To be prepared, I packed another one, ready to let it loose should he not respond to the first, and then grinned darkly as Sherlock attempted to pivot in his usually smooth and swift manner, but then nearly slipped as he failed to do it with any grace in the densely packed snow.

As soon as he’d regained his balance, and his dignity, he stared at me.

After a moment of obvious confusion, he tilted his head and said, in a perplexed tone, “Did you just…?”

“Yeah.”

A pause.

“Because I was…?”

“Being a dickhead,” I gladly supplied for him, smirking.

He simply nodded, his eyes looking just as intently confused at before, and I withheld the impulse to simply throw another one at him.  I waited for him to finally react, turning my head to the side, casually tossing the snowball back and forth between my hands in an attempt to hide my anxiety about my actions.  While the initial moment of impact had been sweet, now I felt unsure.

The silence stretched between us longer than anticipated, and I waited for his usual words to my brash actions such as, “John, this juvenile behavior is beneath you and not necessary to gain my attention,” or “Regressing to such levels of adolescent, even pre-pubescent violence does not suit you, John,” or something to that effect.  I knew they were there, I could see him from the corner of my eye putting them together in his mind as he stood there, towering imperiously in his long coat.

So, imagine my surprise when I casually looked back at him and saw a white sphere headed straight for my own head.

Military instinct was the only thing that kept me from getting hit as I ducked and rolled, immediately rising back up to throw the already made projectile from my hand, grinning when I saw it hit his arm, brought up in instinctive self-defense.

Before I could fully realize what was happening, the two of us were in an all-out snow war, packing and throwing as quickly as we could, both of us hitting and missing the other at about the same rate, and as we did, I could swear that I saw a manic grin on Sherlock’s face, almost as if he was… _enjoying_ it.  However, I didn’t see his face for too long as one his snowballs managed to hit me square on the jaw, causing me to wince, but at the same time it hardened my resolve.  I didn’t know what the outcome of this snow fight would be, but it would certainly be interesting, of that I was certain.

I ducked behind a tree just at the edge of the clearing and began to quickly pack a few more snowballs. As I did so, I turned my head and yelled out to him, “I really don’t think you have a chance, Sherlock! I have military training on my side, plus nearly ten years of practical application!  You might as well surrender, _Detective_!”

I looked out beyond the tree and threw one in his direction, which only barely missed him as he raced across the white open field, heading towards another copse of trees.

He disappeared into them and after a moment, I heard, “Though you may find it hard to believe, _Captain_ Watson, I, too, have _practical_ knowledge of this particular winter sport!”

Losing character for a moment, I laughed and yelled back, “You’re _kidding_?”

I could hear his low laughter ringing across the snowy expanse as he replied, “How do you think Mycroft kept me in line during the winter holidays?”  I laughed at that, bending over slightly, trying to catch my breath, and then had to duck even further as one of Sherlock’s missiles barely grazed my elbow.  Damn him!  He was better than I had expected.  No doubt his long arms helped with the distance.

Armed with the knowledge that he had more experience than previously assumed, I made a new plan. Once more using my military training, I dropped to my stomach and stared over at where he was hiding, and quickly found him.  He was tall, which may have given him long arms, but it was a disadvantage as it made it harder to hide, and his mop of dark brown curls and coat were easy to spot, even in the midst of the black-barked hawthorn trees and bushes.

I belly-crawled closer to his spot and then rolled behind a tree and made a few more snowballs.  He was not going to get away easy.

“So, Captain Watson,” he yelled back, getting into the spirit of the game. “What exactly did I do to warrant such an attack?”

“Besides being a dickhead?”

Another resonant chuckle.

“Yes, besides that!”

I quickly turned, aimed, and threw, grinning when I heard him exclaim, “Ow!”, pleased to know that I’d hit my target.  Right on the back of his shoulder.  I had no doubt that he was rubbing his shoulder at that point, plotting a way to get back at me, which gave me time to throw several more at him if I timed it right.

“Well,” I said, moving from one tree to the next, “The fact that I am now considered a pastime instead of a flatmate, well, that’s sort of where I drew the line!  Mind you, the fact that you insulted my _skills_ as a medical professional was what started it, but that bit about humoring me really just made my decision all the more clear!”

I fell silent and then managed to move to where I was only no more than ten feet away from him and slightly behind where he was somewhat obviously hidden.  I grinned as I got a quick look at him as I also took the chance to catch my breath.  He was crouched, balancing on his toes, ready snowballs on the ground around him, haphazardly placed, entirely _not_ what I’d expected.  I had actually been expecting some perfectly shaped, pyramid type pile; I did not expect to see him with his hair wind swept, his face flushed, and his eyes sparkling with an almost childlike mischief, though still as sharp as they ever were.

It took me off guard, and I hesitated as I pulled my hand back to throw, causing me to nearly lose my balance in my own crouched position, and I rocked back on my heels to regain it.

_Snap._

Sherlock’s head turned.

Shit.

My position was compromised, but instead of running for it, I dropped the snowy weapon and ran straight for him, kamikaze style, and tackled him to the ground, destroying most of his ammunition.  Taken by surprise, he didn’t put up much of a fight, and using my superior body weight, I pinned him and then managed to shove a handful of snow into his face.

Instead of saying some smart remark, I started to laugh, still straddling his waist, and he lifted his leather-gloved hands to his face, brushing the snow off, and I continued to laugh as I saw the incredulous look in his eyes.

“So, Dr. Watson,” he said, still in character, attempting to sit up.  “Have you had your revenge?”

Still wheezing in laughter, I nodded.  I then leaned forward on my knees to stand, just as he managed to sit up, and we suddenly found ourselves in each other’s personal space, our faces a mere inch from each other, and I could feel Sherlock’s breath against my lips.

“Sorry,” I said, apologizing first, pulling back quickly.  I moved away so that I was no longer straddling him and I stood up, brushing the snow off my trousers, and then automatically offered my hand to him, surprised when he actually took it.  Soon enough we were both walking back across the field, the few minutes before feeling as though they weren’t quite real.  Did I really just have a snowball fight with Sherlock Holmes?  Did that actually happen?

As we approached the road, I saw that Lestrade had already beaten us.  But in order to have beaten us there, he would had to have gone… _through_ the field.  I inwardly groaned at the revelation, and as we got closer, I could see that the DI was grinning.

“Hand it over, Greg,” I said, holding out my hand for his phone, knowing without a doubt that he had video footage.

Letting out a small chuckle, he handed it over and said, “Do you ‘ave any idea how much money I could make for that video?”

“Not enough that would cover your hospital bills that would most _assuredly_ ensue,” Sherlock retorted, giving him a glare, and I held back a grin at the not-so-thinly-veiled threat as I pulled up the video.  I started to go delete it…but then had an impulse to do something different.  Quickly, I pressed the e-mail button, and then, making sure that Sherlock was out of earshot, as I handed the phone back to Lestrade, I whispered, “I had a copy sent to my phone, just make sure it’s not on yours,” and then gave him a fake glare when I pulled back.

He simply nodded and pocketed his mobile, and I jogged over to the car, where Sherlock was waiting, already sitting behind the wheel.

“So, we going back to Baker Street?” I asked, unsure if he had anything else planned for the case.

He shook his head as he put the car into gear and pulled onto the road.

“No.  We’re not, John.”

I lifted an eyebrow and gave him a look as I said, “Oh, really? Because I thought you had already done the really hard bit.  You know,” I added, unable to stop my usual quips, “The showing off part.”

He just shook his head a second time and an enigmatic smile appeared on the corner of his lips; one that had me wondering just what it was that he had in mind.  The man was predictably unpredictable, so I had no idea what to expect from him in that moment, so I just sat back and waited for him to tell me.

However, he said nothing and just continued to drive, the damn smirk never leaving his face for the entire thirty-five minute drive.  Instead of heading to any of his usual haunts for his homeless network, or to any other places that I was expecting, I was confused as he turned onto George Street, then Kendall, then Connaught…and then Bayswater.  I gave him a look, but he didn’t return it as he pulled to the side of the road and parked.

He got out, and then I realized where we were.  Kensington Gardens.

He jogged to the entrance and I followed behind him at a slightly slower pace, trying to figure out what we were doing there.  It was empty, and only lit by the lamps along the thickly snow covered walkways, making it feel even larger than it was because of the large expanse of unbroken white snow.

He came to a stop just a few feet inside and I stood next to him.  I gave him a look, showing my obvious confusion, and then he smirked and said, “Care for a rematch, _Dr._ Watson?”

I grinned.

“You’re on, _Detective_ Holmes.”

And with that, we began our snow war all over again.  Sherlock had learned since last time, however, and was using my own tactics against me.  The larger and thicker trees here made for better cover, as did the stone walls, and it soon became a battle of wits.  I was only barely winning, and it was through sheer determination.  I would _not_ let Sherlock beat me at my own game.  This was _my_ game.  I had always beaten Harry every single winter, without fail, no matter how many rematches she had requested.  I was going to _win._

Taking a deep breath, I darted out from behind a snow covered bench and pelted one at him from behind, earning another solid hit.

“Eleven!” I yelled out, and then ducked as he retaliated.

I could feel the breeze from where it sailed over my left shoulder and ran over to one of the low walls and jumped over it and then took refuge behind it.

“Are you cheating, Captain?” he yelled and I laughed, breathless.

“It’s not possible to cheat on a game that has no rules, Detective!” I yelled back, still laughing, amazed at how lighthearted he had become over the course of the day.  I had always had the feeling that this side of him existed, but he’d never shown it until now.

Quickly, I looked over the edge of the wall…and was confused.  Where was he?  Quickly going on alert, I darted my eyes around the park, trying to spot his tall, lanky form moving in the dimly lit park.  It was getting harder and harder to find him.  Unlike in the woods earlier, he was hard to spot in the shadowed lighting.  Dammit.  I decided to take a chance and jumped back over the wall, ducking my head down out of habit…and thanked God for my instincts as a snowball flew right over it from the opposite direction, where I had just been sitting.

“Dammit!”

I grinned at hearing Sherlock curse.

“Want to just call it now?” I yelled to him, trying not to sound too smug, but I couldn’t help it.  I was beating him.

“NO!”

I laughed again at hearing his aggravation, and then gathered my breath enough in order to sprint across the sidewalk to the trees where I knew that he was hiding.  It took a moment for my eyes to adjust, and it was a moment too long, as I felt something icy cold hit me right in the neck.

“Ha, eleven! How about you, Captain?  Are you ready to call it?”

I ducked behind a neighboring tree, finally seeing where he was, and I clenched my jaw as I began to pack what I knew would be my last snowball of the evening.  Sherlock was not going to win this.  I was. And I was going to make sure of it.

“Alright, Detective!” I yelled as I ran, getting into position, “We’re tied!  Whoever gets the next one…wins!  Understood?”  I ran a bit further after I said that, disguising my position from him.

Silence.

And then… “Fine!”

I grinned, tightening my grip on the projectile in my hand.  This was it.  I knew I could win if I could just get the upper ground.  I looked through the trees, making sure he hadn’t moved, and was pleased to see that he had only moved a bit a ways from where I’d last looked.  Perfect.  I moved as silently as I could, slipping behind the bushes that lined up to where I needed to be in order to have the higher advantage on Sherlock.

I settled myself just behind a tree only a few feet from where he was crouched.

I aimed.

I fired.

“Ahhh!”  A hit. Yes!  “Dammit, John!”

I came out from my hiding place, laughing, unable to keep it in at the sight in front of me.  I’d managed to hit him in the same spot where I’d hit him earlier that day, and he was squirming in an almost childlike way, and it amused me to no end to see him obviously trying to get rid of the feeling of the ice and snow that had slipped down his neck and back.

He glared at me, and I knew it was coming before he said it.

“I don’t know why I asked for a rematch for such a juvenile, pre-pubescent game of war strategy!  It’s obvious that you have the advantage, anyway, what with your military training.  I only stood a marginal chance as it was,” he added, slipping off his scarf and shaking it out.  “That was one of my best scarves,” he muttered.

He did not disappoint.

“Sherlock,” I said, clapping a hand on his shoulder, “You did good.  Really.”

He gave me a look, but I just shrugged it off and said, “Let’s get back home and get dry.  I’ll even start a fire in the fireplace, alright?” 

He gave me another look and then let out a sigh.

“Fine,” he said, rolling his eyes as he popped his collar up, causing me to roll _my_ eyes.

We made it back to the car and then back to the flat, and left the car outside for pick up.  As soon as we stepped inside, Mrs. Hudson was there, fussing over both of us.  She insisted on taking our coats for us and throwing them into her dryer, so we left them with her and headed up the stairs.

Just as I’d told him, I got the fire started and then made my way into the kitchen to put the kettle on.

As I pulled out some biscuits from the cupboard above my head, I brought my other hand to my pocket, to check my phone for any messages from Lestrade…and realized that my phone was missing.  In a panic, I thought back to our snow battle, to think of when it most likely had dropped out of my pocket, but then I heard…

“John, I hope you weren’t planning on keeping this video…”

Dammit.  Of course.

I dropped the biscuits onto the counter and stormed back into the living room, and found my flatmate lying on his back in front of the fire, already in his usual lounge pants, t-shirt, and robe, holding the phone above him, staring at it intently.  How he’d changed so quickly, I had no idea, but I brushed the thought to the side.

With no remorse, I walked over and swiped the phone from his hands and glared at him.

“There’s this thing called asking, Sherlock.  If you can’t ask, then don’t assume that the answer will be yes,” I said as I checked to make sure that he hadn’t deleted it.  Good it was still there.  I let out a small sigh of relief, and then added in a soft voice, “I was hoping to keep it actually.”

I absently ran my thumb around the edge of my phone.  It was something rare which was why I wanted to hold onto it.  In a few scattered frames on the video, I could actually see his smile, and so it made it all the more personal to me.

“Why?”

I looked over at him. He was now sitting up, his ankles crossed and his elbows on his knees, fingers steepled, just covering his lips.

It would have been easy for me to lie, to say that I wanted it as blackmail, but after our day together, I felt a sudden need for honesty, and so I finally said, “Because you almost never show this side of yourself, Sherlock.”

He arched an eyebrow, so I sat down in my chair and looked down at him and continued.  “There’s this whole side of you that is…vibrant.  In touch with the world.  Alive.  And not in a manic depressive bi-polar sort of way.  Alive in a… _human_ way.  Where all of your damn deduction is stripped away and I can actually see the person that’s underneath.  The _real_ Sherlock Holmes.”

He was as still as a statue.

I wasn’t surprised; I didn’t _expect_ him to respond to a statement like that. He was probably still trying to comprehend the fact that I’d just called him ‘vibrant’, among other adjectives that I’d used.  He was not a man that was used to compliments, so I simply stood up and walked back into the kitchen, and let him process what had just happened.

I poured the tea and then put the biscuits onto a plate, briefly realizing that it was the first time in a long time that I’d done something like that without the aid of Mrs. Hudson.

When I walked back in, he hadn’t moved, fingertips still resting against his lips.  I put the plate on the floor in front of him and then, after a moment of brief deliberation, I joined him, leaning back against the side of my chair, stretching my legs out in front of me, pointing towards the fire.  Absently, I snagged a biscuit from the plate and took a bite as I tried to ignore the silence that was stretching between us, the silence that I could hear filled with his unspoken thoughts.

Finally, after about five more minutes of dead air, he moved and picked up his tea from the plate, taking a long sip.

I heard him take a deep breath.

“Whenever I visited Mycroft at university, here in London, he used to take me to Kensington Gardens.  During winter break, I would stay with him and we’d spend… _hours_ outside, sometimes just walking, but sometimes…well, you know,” he finished tentatively, taking another sip of his tea.  I waited for him to continue, and he did.  “But then, one winter, it just…stopped.  No more _snow_ days for the Holmes boys.  And he never told me why…”

I didn’t know what to say to that, but after a moment I managed to come up with, “Have you ever asked?”

He gave me a look, tilting his head.

“Honestly, John. Have you met my brother?”

I let out a small laugh and nodded.

“Point taken.”

He chuckled as well, a pleasant, low sound, and then said, “It was some sort of unspoken agreement between us that we never speak about it.  I was fifteen when he stopped our winter excursions, and so I began to be… _reclusive_ …during the winter holiday.  That was when he and I had our, well, falling out, so to speak.”

I stayed silent, but I was silently pleased that Sherlock was opening up to me, even if it _was_ about painful memories.

The silence this time didn’t last very long as he added, “It’s one of the reasons why I get a bit more…agitated during the winter months.  I am sorry if I was being a bit short with you earlier today.  It was a low blow, even for me.”

I stared at him, shocked, and then let out a chuckle of my own as I put down my own tea and said, “That wasn’t entirely _your_ fault, you know,” and gave him a look.  “I was already upset about having to go out in the damn cold and you weren’t being any more rude than you usually are!  I just sort of… _snapped_ a bit more than I was expecting.  I’m just glad that it didn’t turn out badly and that we managed to even make a pretty decent day out of it…”

At that point, he smiled, and I couldn’t help but grin along with him.

He then said, “So…it’s all good, then?”

I nodded.

“Definitely good.”

We sat there in companionable silence for the next twenty minutes, finishing our tea and biscuits, getting pleasantly warm, and then as I stood up to take the empty plate and mugs back to the kitchen, Sherlock said, “Send me a copy.”

I stopped and looked down at him, wondering why he was asking.  He seemed to be able to read my look, because he rolled his eyes.

“It’s nothing _sentimental,_ ” he added, saying the word like it was a curse word, “I just want to take a closer look at your tactics so I can beat you next time.”

I raised my eyebrow.

“Next time?”

He gave me a dark grin and then said, in a voice nearly an octave below usual, “Oh, yes, John.  _Next_ time.  I _will_ win…”

I returned his look.

“I wasn’t even trying today, Sherlock.  You don’t have a chance in hell.”

As I walked out of the room, I heard his low laugh following after me, and I grinned.  _This_ was my favorite side of him, for sure.  The side of him that actually knew how to have fun; the side of him that was the most human and the essence of who he really was.  A big kid with a huge heart and a competitive streak a mile wide.

I put the mugs into the cabinet and smiled.

I was looking forward to our snow days.

 

 


End file.
